


These Violent Delights

by borlaaq



Series: This Slow Devour [7]
Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Abuse of the em dash and parentheses, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bag A Legend Conclusion Spoilers, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Body Modification, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Emil just Seeks all wrong as always, Fix-It of Sorts, I’ll bring Candles back the only way I know how and that’s by fucking up Emil, Judgment!Candles, Knock is mentioned but just like all my fics its deviated very far from canon, Other, Polyamory, SMEN Spoilers, Self-Harm, The Liberation of Night, Transformation, chapter two will have:, i did too much reading about maya, like all of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:28:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23385283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/borlaaq/pseuds/borlaaq
Summary: If you burn, you burn like a candle. If you die, you die like dawn.
Relationships: Mr Apples | Mr Hearts & Mr Eaten & Mr Veils, Mr Veils/Mr Candles, Seeker of Mr Eaten's Name/Mr Veils (Fallen London)
Series: This Slow Devour [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1697740
Comments: 11
Kudos: 17





	1. The Horror and the Wild

**Author's Note:**

> Again, be aware this covers ALL of the bag a legend conclusion with my own personal attempt at uh sort of a fix it? 
> 
> my bag a legend fic got too long so heres the first chapter. chapter two will be up soon!
> 
> lyrics are from the Horror and the Wild by the Amazing Devil <3

_ Deep beneath your bed, they said:  _

_ “It all comes down to _

_ you.” _

—

Look, it always starts with blood. You would laugh if it wasn’t so true — if it usually didn’t start with your blood.

And look, you don’t know how you let it get this far. You’ve died seven times. You have almost as many candles. You have memories in your head that aren’t yours. Sometimes your reflection looks wrong right wrong. 

(When did you learn how to make candles? When did candlelight start to flicker in your direction? When did you fall in love? The glass knows your name. The serpents have your scent.)

What you do know is this: Revenge, Remembrance, Rebirth. (— A Reckoning.)

April and Mother Superior don’t ask. You know they don’t want to know. They are both still surprised you’re here, working towards the goal of killing the Vake. Even after they sat you down and told you the Vake is Mr Veils. 

You remember the smile that crossed your face had unnerved Mother Superior. The way you said, “I know.” made her realize that you are not everything you claim to be. There is something under the surface of your skin, something bloodthirsty, even to the point of betraying the Masters who call you their Fist. 

You also know this: you are the Fist of the Bazaar. You are a Neddy Man. And you are a Vake-Scarred Hunter and you are a Seeker of Mr Eaten’s Name.

(Wait, wait, no, all of that sounds wrong. Wrong like your reflection. Wrong like your memories. Wrong like—)

—

You dream and he speaks to you: “If the Sun is its master, let the Sun be drowned. My hate will not be contained until the Sun is cindered and damned, until its heart is empty as theirs.”

And you wonder: is that him? Or is that what he has become? Veils calls you Candles. This that speaks is not warm like that name. This is cold and dark. Empty, empty, empty. Lacre at the bottom of a well. Bones gnawed and brittle. 

You remember: “You aren’t seeking Mr Eaten’s name. You’re seeking Mr Candles’ name.” And you want to fight the hate. You want to look to love. 

(Coward. Don’t turn back now.)

You can’t turn back now. But you are afraid of what lurks under the surface. 

—

_ You watch the stars hurl all their fundaments,  _

_ in wonderment,  _

_ at you and yours, forever asking more. _

—

You think April is using you. 

She learns quickly how to twist that part of you that lurks under your skin, how to draw it out. You think she is trying to make a Revolutionary of you. You don’t let any secrets of the Masters slip but she seems to think you can’t keep that up for long. 

(You wonder if she is right because you dream about an Eye Beneath the Sea and a Liberation.) 

She likes to include words like revenge and remember and reckoning in her notes. It makes you hungry.

Your suspicions are confirmed when April tells you she refuses to help with the Vake anymore unless you destroy the Khan of Silks’ Warehouse. You push back, that was not part of the agreement. You only want the Vake.

April makes sure you know just how close to the Well in the Forgotten Quarter the warehouse is. Mother Superior stops reading then. You can’t read so she had been translating for you. She writes something back to April and the two of them argue.

Mother Superior won’t tell you what it’s about.

—

Veils had once said: “Love is for lower beings.”

Your head had been in its lap, its claws scratching behind your ears. Its voice is soft, scared. You had chuckled.

—

_ Remember me, I ask. _

—

You don’t remember when you rented a zubmarine. You have a minimal crew. Ones that are disposable. You don’t want word to get back to anyone about where you have been. Down down down. The pressure creaks the steel and you feel like you’re drowning. You are afraid.

The Eye opens, watching your movements. You do not hesitate and the darkness pulls you in. It's comfortable and easy. You breathe. Yes, you think, this is how the world should be. This dark. This cold. This. 

(– You aren't drowning.)

You almost think you are in the Bazaar when you open your eyes. The room is like those you’ve snuck into. Like Veils’ without all the fabric. Like Apples’ without all the fruit and plants. It's no surprise to you, then, when you see a Master-Shaped figure. But it's robes don’t match any you know. You look past it, though, more drawn to the black sun behind it.

“My employer can sense him in you.” The Master says. “If you succeed, he will not come back the same, you know that right?” 

(Nothing will ever be the same again. That's the point of a Reckoning, no?)

“Been watching me?”

“My employer has eyes everywhere. Even the Neath. As you are well aware.”

“What do you want then?” You ask.

“You came here on your own.”

“Because my dreams showed me.”

It laughs, shrill but energetic. The sun is closer and you feel like you are being judged, beheld. “Ah. No. Dreams are not our Domain. He must have wanted you to seek us out.” It doesn't give you time to reply, instead tilting its cowled head. “You will deliver the message, then?”

You meet the gaze of the sun. The darkness squirms and you realize that when a sun feels such anguish, such pain, that when it dies in the only way a sun can, this is what it will become. You realize other Judgements fear these sullen things. As if knowing your realization, you feel joy radiate from the sun. 

You say, “I will.” 

The Master crosses over to you, a clawed talon grasping your arm. (Does it know you have a tattoo there? The one of the Eye? You’ve been dreaming about this for so long.) Pain flares, you can smell your flesh burn and it feels like it's tearing open. Blood and ink bleed through your shirt. The sun growls, the floor shaking from it. Its skin boils as it watches. Finally, the Master pulls away. 

“Go now. My employer must grieve. To look on you longer would only cause it distress. You open old wounds, the way you shine reminds it of him and he reminds it of—” It cuts itself off. “Begone.”

(Do you know suns can have twins? A bond stronger than love. To lose that is to lose yourself. To survive is to change. Perhaps we were as naive as the King-Speaker.)

Your vision blacks out. The ground underneath your feet sways. When you wake up, you are back on your zubmarine and your crew is forcing the vessel away from the Eye. You direct them to dock at the Chapel of Lights. You get a different ship to take you back to London. Your crew is not with you. 

—

_ Remember me, I sing. _

—

Your tattoo has taken on a mind of its own. It blinks and moves across your skin. You learn it's named the Halved. It is not a very good conversation partner. 

—

“She doesn’t know the Masters like I do. Like we do.” Mother Superior tells you later. “Sometimes, in mirrors, your reflection is wrong.”

“Is it?” You ask because you know what she sees. She sees Candles. 

(You shouldn’t think his name, you know. Be careful. Don’t lose yourself to it.) 

But it’s too late, too late. Who are you now? Not the Fist, not the Hunter or the Seeker. You are not you. Not in the mirror.

Mother Superior continues, “I feel like I’m forgetting something — someone. It hurts. Do you know what that’s like? To feel like you are missing something so important? Ripped right out from under you but you just — you can’t remember. It’s right there, so close and—” She’s staring at one of the mirrors of your lab, shoulders shaking. “I’m tired. So tired.”

You want to tell her you know but you can’t find the words. 

(They wouldn’t be your words anyway.)

—

You look in the mirror and miss your wings. 

(You never had wings.) 

Right. You never had wings.

—

_ Give me back my heart, you wingless thing. _

—

Fires tells you: “It’s almost a tradition, when we lose one of our number.”

It had made you feel so sick you know you dropped your guise of Veils. You spit, “Yet you couldn’t even bother to give Candles the same courtesy.”

Fires laughs, like a bellow from one of its engines. “Ah, but  _ Veils _ ,” its voice drips with venom. It knows you aren’t Veils. “This is the Neath. We did not need the Courtesy.” 

You don’t understand but something about that makes a rage well up inside you so strong your vision blurs. Your legs give out. You don’t understand. 

When you come too, you are at the Well. You can taste Masters’ blood on your teeth and your head aches. And Veils is standing there, looking down at you. You are still dressed as it. It doesn’t ask, just shrugs off its outermost cloak and drapes it over you. “You may want to go check on your allies.” It says. “I’ll close my eyes and pretend I don’t know where you’re hiding.” 

The hunt, after all, is half the fun.

You draw the fabric around yourself tightly, rubbing your face into the soft fabric. “This is dumb. I’m supposed to be trying to kill you.”

Veils just hums, turning away. “Eaten probably won’t give you a choice when the matter comes up. Don’t get soft.”

“Seems it's too late for you.”

“I killed Candles. I can kill you too.” A pause. “Go check on your nun.” It's a threat. You bare your teeth, shoving past Veils.

—

_ Think of all the horrors that I promised you I’d bring. _

—

Wines stares at you for a long time. It knows what this means. Your hunger has seeped into your bones and it almost looks afraid of you. You will kill Veils in the same way Veils had killed you. (—not you, not you, why do you keep thinking—) 

Finally, it speaks, claws shaking as it holds the bottle. Your blood mixed with Veils. The two of you intertwined. “In exchange, we demand this: when such a choice stands before you, you will do the same. You will kill a friend.”

You don’t know if it means Veils or— your throat is tight. “Do you make people make that promise because you regret your betrayal or did you demand Veils make the same oath?”

Wines smiles sadly. It tucks your Curved-Talon Absinthe into its robe. “Veils collects stories of violence. We never needed it here. Not when we need love.” An elegant dodge of a question. 

Claws and teeth stained with blood, you remember. And you had loved it completely then. 

“Monsters are still deserving of love.”

Wines levels you with a look. “And you would know, wouldn’t you? You are also a monster.”

Is it talking to you or Eaten?

—

_ I am The Wild. _

—

“When we’re free, will you teach me to hunt?”

Veils had met your wings beat for beat. You circled the Island with it. You made this place for it. Your own part of Parabola that you had melded like you had melded wax and amber. You wanted it to be happy. 

It never gave you an answer.

And now Parabola bends to it. Tainted and dying. Rivers of blood and scenes of violence. The world is so sensitive to emotions and having brought Veils here with a mixture of your blood and its, the land is twisted and ugly. But this is Veils’ collection, its hoard, and there’s something beautiful and personal in seeing it. (You remember seeing its fabrics for the first time and the sense of pride it had in its voice when it told you all about it.)

It stares at you, something flickering in its gaze. Where you step, the grass turns back to green — alive and thriving. This is as much your domain as its. You would give it everything here. A battle like it deserves. A battle like a ballgame with your life on the line. A battle like— 

—

“When it comes to that," Veils had said when you confronted it, "Fight back, Candles. Give me something worth adding to my collection.”

—

_ And I am Time itself.  _

_ I slow to let you play.  _

_ I steal the hours and turn the night into day. _

—

There is singing. Loud. So much it shakes the ground the vibrations run up your legs and throw you off balance. The Vake snarls, wings spread to catch itself. You rip your harpoon from its wing and spin around. 

April has detonated the Chorister Bomb. 

“You promised we wouldn’t use the Bomb unless it was a last resort!” You shout over the noise. Something like betrayal fills your lungs like cold water. You are enraged by this. You had wanted to fight the Vake on even footing, meet it in a battle of brute strength. You wanted to best it in its own game. 

(And something else latches onto that betrayal, rips open your rips and digs its claws in and in and in. The choice is not yours.)

Seven voices sing. Calling to the Vake in a way that makes its ears push back as it bares its teeth. It shrieks and it's stunned, staring at you. The song is this: of the Laws, of the Order of Days, of  _ Breaking _ . Breaking Chains and Breaking Laws and Breaking Promises. Breaking Hearts and Breaking Bones. The song is also this: Instinct and Society. Then, finally, Cruelty, Cruelty, Cruelty. 

Not this. Not this. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. 

“I didn’t trust you. I never trusted you. You think I didn’t know who you are?” April is yelling now, her voice strained and wrong in Parabola but she speaks so you can hear. “I will bring about the Revolution myself! I will kill a Master without you!”

The explosion takes an eternity and an instant. You see the Vake flicker, you see Veils. It wants to sing the Song of the Stars and the Void again. It fights itself, it fights the bomb and the Science. 

You respond in something that is not a song, “Fucking bitch! You don’t know what you’re doing! I’ll bring about the Night, don’t you dare assume I won’t!” Your skin burns and crawls. You rip open your shirt, buttons popping. “But I will make Veils suffer as he did first!”

(This is who you are now, isn’t it? The rage and regret? Hold on to it. Let it  _ Eat _ you.)

The Eye of the Halved blinks beadily in the Cosmogone Light. It squirms across your skin, growing excited.

“That’s—” April starts but you are already grabbing the Bomb, attempting to dig your fingers into the mechanisms. You will not have Veils be brought low by something like Red Science. This is your battle — his revenge.

(Yes, yes, that’s it. You made Veils fall in love with you. Now kill it. Old sins repeat.)

A gunshot is the final part of the chorus. 

You bring your hand to your chest in shock. April lowers her handgun. The blood is warm and cold all at once. Your hands are filled with the guts of the Bomb and now also your own blood. It won’t kill you, oh it won’t kill you. 

But—

(Look.)

“Congratulations, Vake Hunter.” April sneers.

—

You, little rabbit, are not the Reckoning.

—

You almost think yourself deaf when you turn. The song is abruptly over and the quiet is painful. And you are staring at the aftermath. 

WHO into WHY.

These are all the parts that make Veils the Vake. Most are too weak, dying in heaps. The one that looks so much like the Mr Veils you’ve fallen in love with is crushed under its own weight. Hollow inside. Fake. Veils never wanted to be a Master. You take a step closer. You can feel the Mark of the Halved watching closely.

RED SCIENCE IS SUCH A HORRIBLE THING. It muses in the back of your mind. TO UNDO LAW… You can feel it laugh. WONDERFUL.

There are only three left then. An almost human one who looks at you with a glint in its eyes and a grin too sharp. A Curator like you’ve only seen in your dreams takes flight, feral and determined. 

And lastly— Something in you seethes. The headdress and robes from a Ceremony you know so well. It looks at you, but does not linger. It dives into a hole in the ground and as the rocks close around it, you cannot help yourself from throwing your harpoon. It embeds itself deep into the earth. 

These are the three strongest parts of Veils. The things that have had the most impact on it. What shaped it. Its Instinct, its dealings in Surface Politics and— Stuck in one day of one year. The Day of the Betrayal. Even stronger than the part of it that is a Master. 

You feel sick. 

“Emil.” The voice is almost human but it's still Veils. You hate the way it makes your heart skip a beat. You want rage right now.

You look up from where you are trying to yank your harpoon from the dirt. “What now? You snap.

“Run.” And it sounds so excited and sadistic.

A shadow of a huge winged beast passes over you. You barely roll out of the way as Curator Veils divebombs you. You scramble for your harpoon, wrenching it from the ground before being tossed to your back. You use the weapon to just barely keep Veils’ talons from your stomach. 

You will not be disemboweled by Veils  _ again _ .

(You won't let Veils kill you again. Not ever again.)

Something is starting to give, like flesh under Ravenglass knives.

When the Curator beats its wings against your flesh, the wind feels like blades. You remember then, in a flood of burning rage. You scream, shoving hard with your harpoon. It throws Veils off balance and it reels back, ripping the harpoon from your hands. 

Something in the sky cracks, just like something in you breaks like bones under teeth. The Halved is laughing. IS THIS THE RECKONING YOU WANTED? You don’t know if it is.

Everything goes black. 

—

You both had wore masks but you remember when the drugs set in and the chains laid heavy, Veils lifted yours from your face gently. Its claw traced something on your wing, something that could have been either 'Regret’ or ‘Impenitent’. You are too far gone to tell. 

You don’t sleep like Veils told you you would, though. Instead you are pinned up like a butterfly on display to the wall. You cannot move and everything happens in slow motion. You can feel the blades flay you. You can feel everything. You scream until your vocal cords snap.

And when you look up, Veils’ eyes watch you behind its mask — unreadable.

—

_ How bold I was, could be — _

_ — Will be — _

_ Still am, by god, still am. _

—

You didn’t black out. No, the darkness is something else entirely. Something new and wrong and also perfect. 

LIKE ELEUTHERIA. The Halved remarks and it's not spoken in the Correspondence but instead in the Discordance and you understand the words as cold as the North.

(This is what it feels like to open the Gate. This is what it is like to Knock. And you will Knock.)

The false sun of Parabola is gone. A shattering of glass and light. It falls like stars or rain. All the work the Second City did to persevere the light-that-left is gone. The Curator is staring before it looks back at you with lips curled in a snarl. It snaps your harpoon in half. 

(The part of you that is still Emil is very upset by that. Does it realize how hard you worked to make that?)

But you are not in control. You lift a hand, look at your dark skin and think: this is wrong. But the ground trembles. Vines surge like hissing snakes. Curator Veils leaps and one of the vines goes right through the webbing of its wing. It howls and tries to meld Parabola back to its will. It came here with its own blood, the world should bend to it. 

It doesn’t.

You reach out. There is no sun in Parabola anymore—

— Except for you. Dark and seething. Something so terrifyingly beautiful. 

YOU WON’T REMEMBER THIS WHEN YOU LEAVE. The Halved says. It's true, but for now, you hold onto the knowledge. They thought you weak because this is the Is-Not. Hatched from an egg, you did not shine as bright as a Star, but instead as bright as a Candle.

Here and now, you shine not at all. 

The stars in the Curator’s wings turn gold. They absorb the light. Your vines pull it down, make it kneel. It spits and snarls. You cage it in briars just like those they make into Red Honey. 

There’s Northern Lights in the Parabolan sky now and you rearrange the constellations with a single word. The Days change until they realign to the day of the Slaughter. Recognition lights up its face as the stars of its wings change to match. You expect it to beg, to cry and claw. It does none of that, instead it stares.

And you see yourself in its eyes. Your skin is melting off, your eyes flicker like candle flame. Your robes are torn and tattered. Each and every bite mark in your bones aches like a bruise. But here is Veils, the Curator, the thing it wants so desperately to be again.

(Kill it. This is why you are here. Be my claws, my teeth. Avenge us.)

—

_ Fret not, dear heart. _

—

No, no, no. You are not what you had become. You are not what happened to you. Breathe. You are not Eaten. You are not the circumstances of your death.

The sky spins again. Stars change. Fast forward. This is your realm. Slaughter, Hunt, Feast, Council. Now. There. It stops on Bargain. 

"We only regret the price worth paying," you say.

“I did what was in my nature.” Veils replies, words sharp as your briars.

You are all victims of Law. They ask and they ask. They do not care about those lower links.

UNDO IT. LIBERATE.

Yes, it’s all so simple. 

You turn and leave this Veils in its prison of thorns. The vines dig in like a slow bloodletting. Its blood causes roses to bloom, hungry and wild. This enrages it. This is not a hunt. It howls, thrashing anew. 

“What of your Reckoning, hunter?” It spits. “Are you so weak that even Eaten has abandoned you?” 

You ask Veils: “Isn't it time for you to get revenge too?”

—

_ Let not them hear the muttering of all your fears, _

_ The fluttering of all your wings.  _

—

The Chessboard is not White versus Black right now. Not with motes of false Cosmogone still flaking down from where the Second City Sun had been. When the light gets near you it gutters out. 

Instead on the board is Gold Versus White.

IT FITS YOU. The Halved tells you and you wonder what part it's talking to. Emil, Candles, Eaten. You don’t know where one ends and another begins. Everything is blurred around the edges like blood in the water.

You look out across the slaughter. Gold is losing but you know the story. There is the spymaster for White turning traitor. There are the reinforcements. You see Veils, almost human, picking through corpses. It tenses when it hears you approach.

“Kill me, then.” It says.

You toss it a weapon. A dagger. Close combat like you know it prefers. You slip on your own brass knuckles. Here, you are even.

“I promised I would fight back.”

You hear it stop breathing. It reaches for the blade. Then, it laughs, a kind of bitter sound. “I drugged you. Dragged you there myself. Stripped you clean of your robes and put the mask on you. You didn’t fight. I couldn’t stand to let you fight.”

You clench your jaw because you don’t want to remember. It hurts. You are barely keeping Eaten at bay as it is. You are not strong enough. You don’t know who you are. Are you Emil or Candles? Is there any difference?

So you respond, “So we fight now, instead.”

And it barely has time to block your punch, eyes wide and feral. You can smell its adrenaline, its excitement. You go to kick its legs out from under it and it anticipates the attack. It reels back, slamming its head into your face. 

You stumble backwards, hissing.

“You are still human!” It snarls. “Those memories are not yours to have.”

It's right but still you reach out to them, pull them against your soul until it burns. You lick your lip before bringing a hand up to your nose. It's not broken, but blood spills down and you glare at the Veils of the Surface.

It tenses then. “No. Y-your blood…” It stammers, so out of character you could laugh if you weren’t so shocked.

When you bring your hand down to look at it, your blood comes away gold. You freeze. Veils closes its eyes. Here, in Parabola, in what remains of the Cosmogone light, your blood is gold gold gold. 

“I’ll kill you as many times as it takes.” Hysteria is taking it and it runs at you. It's slower in this form, being so condensed as it is. Still, it takes you off guard, tackling you. This battle is erratic and savage. There is no Law, no Chain and no Ballcourt. You feel its blade in your side and you grapple it, fist meeting its stomach. The two of you tumble across the Chessboard, players scattering. You don’t know how many times its stabbed you and you don’t know how many bones you’ve heard break under your punches.

Finally you bring a knee up to its chest. It rolls to the side, coughing up blood and the sound of ribs cracking still rings in your ears. You stand, shaking, and grab its chin, forcing it to look at you. It’s form is rippling as it tries to keep to its human disguise, the lines of it blurring. It’s trying not to transform. It probably can’t transform in this state, as only a part of it that it is. It is panting and spits blood at you. 

Words spill from your mouth. “Do you not think you suffered enough? Years without me and the guilt wasn't bad enough? Lowering yourself to deal with humans. Watching Emil fall in love with you, and then watching him give himself up, all for you, and you think it wasn't enough?” You-but-not demands. 

And in response, Veils is kissing you. You bite its lip and you taste blood — its, yours, and something golden like sunlight. 

“I'll put you back together if you do the same to me.” You tell it.

“You are my light.” So quiet you almost don’t catch it. A beat, a breath. “You are worth every sacrifice I can make.” 

—

_ Welcome to the storm, I am thunder. _

_ Welcome to my table, bring your hunger.  _

—

What you don't know is that Veils held your bones when you died. That it gave you a burial of the skies, as much as it could. A well, as tradition, for something too personal to kill.

(The lacre was supposed to put you to sleep. To let you rest. 

But you aren't a pig.)

You don't know any of this, but you see it in a mirror as you pass. The Waswood is all around you and the trees part for you, show you the way. Usually you wouldn’t dare to touch the shore. The Waswood keeps what it takes. It does not like to give anything up. But this place is yours. At least, for now, it obeys. 

There, on the shore, sits the last part of Veils. It watches you with an expression you remember when it lead you up to the God-Eaters. And yet, it looks like an idol, so beautiful in the ceremonial robes. And you remember how you loved it and how you love it still. The feathers gleam perfectly against its pitch black fur, its long fingers decorated with jewelry. The Jaguar ring. The marker of a king. 

(You had worshiped it and it wasn’t enough. You weren't enough. Nothing is ever enough for it.)

A Ballcourt is stretched around it, although it ripples when you near. You allow it to keep its own illusion here. 

“If you have come for an apology, it was a wasted journey.” 

You know this. It won’t apologize with words. And this Veils hasn’t had the years for guilt it fester in its wounds. 

Instead you say, “We could be gods.” 

That gets its attention and it sits up a bit straighter. You aren't lying and it doesn't expect cruelty from you. 

But you only need part of this Veils. 

The air changes around the two of you. Veils flinches. Here is the room where it happened. Here is the table still stained with blood. Here is where Veils stood and watched. It stands, goes to run. And it stumbles, eyes wide. The drugs. Oh yes, the drugs. You know how they burn in its veins, how they slow everything down. And how even with Veils’ hand around your neck begging you to sleep through it, you couldn’t, you couldn’t.

(Had it miscalculated the dosage on accident or on purpose? It does so love the violence but the memories of your death were not in its collection.)

“I’ll only take a little,” you tell it.

—

_ Remember me. Remember me. Remember me. Remember me.  _

—

It doesn’t scream. 

You are glad because you don’t think you could stand if it did. It would hurt too bad. When it's quiet, watching each cut, you can lean on Eaten to guide your hand. Still, though, your eyes burn with tears that just barely won’t fall. A cut down the center of its chest, clean and straight. You remember how the Ravenglass felt against your own skin. It doesn’t part easily, it snags and rips. 

(Human blades were not meant for us.)

Veils looks beautiful pinned out, skin pulled back. It’s blood is red and warm and your mouth waters for a taste. Would it taste like the absinthe, you wonder? Oh how you want to taste it. 

You find what you need nestled in between its ribs, next to its pulsing heart. The flickering of memories held together with red threads of gore. 

“I won’t be the same. Even if you take all of me, I won’t be the same. This is a fool's errand.”

You look up at it. “No. Nothing is ever the same.” You grasp the flickering memories and tug. Veils’ unravels like a bolt of cheap linen. It leaves nothing but bloodstains (red to match the gold) and the fragment in your hands. Its jewelry clatters to the ground. You take the ring. 

—

_ Witness me, old man, old man, old man— _

—

Surface Veils is sitting next to the Briar Cage. The Curator inside is sleeping, wings wrapped around it. 

It is still the Day of the Bargain. 

“My request.” You say and the two parts of Veils look up at you. They both look exhausted. You hold up the part you took from Third City Veils. The Curator lunges at the cage, desperate to become whole again. Surface Veils rubs its bony knuckles as if its joints hurt from being so small.

You continue: “Rip me open. Tear out the parts of Candles and remake me.”

“You truly think that possible?” Surface Veils whispers. “You truly think we can bring back a  _ sun _ ?”

“We have to try.” You say. 

Curator Veils speaks next. "There will be nothing left of you."

"There's barely any of Emil left as it is."

And why does Veils look so hurt by that? What is more blood on its hands? 

—

_ I am the— _

—

If you burn, you burn like a candle. If you die, you die like dawn.

—

_ Remember me, I ask. Remember me, I sing. _

_ Think of all the horrors that I promised you I’d bring.  _


	2. The Killing Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lyrics are The Killing Kind by Marianas Trench

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: i miss my poly family gfs  
> also me: time to give these feelings to apples.

_ I roam these halls, search the night, _

_ In hopes that I may see _

_ A remnant trace, a glimpse of you. _

—

There is no Sequence for this. There never was. 

How could any of you believe a sun would stay dead?

—

You hadn’t expected mercy. You didn’t want mercy. You wanted to suffer as it did. You wanted to finally be free in a way only death can bring, in a way you couldn’t even give it. Is that selfish? To want what it can’t ever have? 

But, you guess, after everything, it can hardly be called mercy. You are put together the same way you were torn apart. It hurts worse than death, you think. And all the memories of each individual part of you rush in until your head pounds and your vision blacks out. You wonder if this is what drowning feels like.

— Emil must feel like this all the time.

You are bound to the Is-Not now. (Perhaps you always were, in a way.)

You dig your claws into the earth, choking, and you throw your wings out with a snarl. You can’t see anything but vague shapes and toss your weight at the first thing that moves. Small,  _ human _ hands fist themselves into your mane and tug. You can’t understand what he’s saying. His words are ice cold and you flinch. Your ears press against your head. It's backwards, wrong. 

“Breathe.” English this time. You bare your teeth. Another tug at your fur and then your name in the Correspondence. “Veils. You have to  _ breathe _ .”

Something about hearing him speak your name in the Correspondence shakes you. Yes, that's you. Mr Veils. Not Vake the Betrayer, not the Intriguer, not the Curator. The Master of Fabric and Fur. And he says it the same way Candles did, with such devotion and love. ("It's a good name." Candles had told you and you didn't tell it you agreed. Names are special to Curators and you earned yours. You are proud of your name.) 

The translations have always taken on a second meaning in the Neath, whenever you try to translate it for the current City. Fabric. A sheer cover. It fit. But in the Correspondence your name shines in its true meaning. To Conceal One's True Nature. And Candles had always appreciated that deeper meaning. ("All of our names have come to mean something else. It's good to remember our roots.") 

You cough, inhaling gulps of air. It's humid and after remembering how your lungs work, your vision clears. You blink, taking in the sight of your talons. Not human, not a full-sized Curator. There’s no jewelry. You are a Master. You sit back on your haunches, and flex your wings. It knocks Emil back and he yelps. 

You can’t help but laugh. 

—

You are weak. A weakness deeper than your bones. Emil has to drag you back to his camp. You try to help but you can’t do much more than move your wings and you keep fading in and out of consciousness. You want to sleep. 

You don’t remember Emil smelling so good before. Like roses. 

He complains the whole time, but the way he scratches behind your ears and pets your fur makes you sigh. Sometimes he sings to you and you close your eyes and see the sky again. (—Here his voice glows warm like a candle.)

After a while, you feel something else push against your other side to help you along. You look over to see a black lion. Its mane is matted, but it has bones woven in it like it's trying to make the best of it. (Like it used to be a king. And it did, in a way.) It glares at you when it notices you looking. It’s ribs poke into your wing uncomfortably and its eyes are molten gold.

“Thank you,” Emil tells it. He’s tired too.

“I knew it was bad when you called for me to help but—” Its tail flicks in irritation. “This is my master’s  _ murderer _ .”

Yet, it's still helping. “Maahes.” You acknowledge.

It flinches. Emil glances at you with a smirk. “Don’t start, Vake. No one calls me that anymore.”

—

_ Saying I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, _

_ I know my love can be— _

—

You had always had trouble controlling yourself and avoiding the Hunt. The Hour meant nothing to you. When you get excited or smelt blood, well, that’s why you’re here. Candles had found a way to help by taking you to Parabola but it only lasted so long. 

And now you don’t even have that. The only way you can get to Parabola now is by hunting.

They had let you play the Vake on two conditions: you would bring Hearts meat (“— and not human, please, my dear. I simply  _ cannot _ sell human meat.”) and you would give your blood to Wines for Absinthe. Hearts’ part had been easy to agree too. Pick up something wild and drop in its quarters. Wines… had been harder. 

It sells your blood and you never quite get used to the feeling of people seeing what you see. Dreaming of being you. Wines does it to keep you in line. The feeling is unpleasant. You learn to use it to your advantage when you realize it works both ways. You put out a bounty on your own head. The hunters drink the absinthe to find you. But you know they’re coming because you can see them too. 

Emil had been one such hunter. You often think about what made him so different. Was it the timing? Or would this have happened no matter what?

You had been hunting cultists at the Chapel of Lights. Usually you didn’t dare fly out that far but sometimes you need to do a little extra to keep Seekers in line. The Veils Wing is full, after all. (Maybe you feel you have to do this. You have to clean up the mess you made.)

And that’s when Emil drank the Absinthe. He saw through your eyes and something in him cracked open. Like light slipping through the foliage, it flooded him.

The first time you kill him, you unfurl your wings, letting the constellations in the webbing cage in the small human, sharp claws close. They pulse with your heart, green and gold. (And you hate the gold. You didn’t used to have gold stars until you went to Parabola.) It’s a distraction you use often. Lesser creatures are distracted by the light, especially in the Neath where that’s the only starlight they get to see.

Oh, but oh, the way he had stared at your wings made you feel like a god.

How no one has looked at your wings like that since—

—

Even after slaughtering him, he came back for more. (So much like— No, don’t think about that.)

—

“Its soul is stained. Injured. I don’t think it will ever recover.” Apples’ voice. Your eyelids are too heavy to open. “It… looks like yours,” Apples laughs sheepishly. “Like it was ripped out and put back seven times.”

“But physically?” Candles...? No. No. Emil. 

“Seen better. But Veils is strong.” A pause. “Come. Let us leave it to rest. You wanted to borrow my ship?”

“I have a few last arrangements to make at the Chapel.”

You try to will yourself to speak, to move, but your body is too exhausted. You fall back asleep before you even hear the door shut. 

—

_ I know my love can be the killing kind. _

—

Look, Curators don’t have nightmares. There’s Parabola but when, if, you dream, its memories. Things that you tried to drown in Irrigo that resurface. Not nightmares. (This is why Eaten needed Seekers. Its message was for you. The Seekers were collateral damage.) The memories, however, are often worse than nightmares.

“They will worship you if you do this.” Wines is telling you. “They won’t know that your blood doesn’t also run gold.”

The to-be Third City has a god of death with sweeping wings, jagged teeth, and a pelt of midnight. You could cement your place in their pantheon.

“I want to see the contract.” You demand. Wines hesitates before sliding the tanned animal hide across the table. Your claws leave marks on the table as you read.

Wines had written the Corresponding symbol for ‘part of a whole’. The Third City Priests had crossed it out and written ‘ALL’ in blood. Wines signature lays heavy next to it. An approval of the change. 

You close your eyes and exhale through your nose. You shove the contract back towards Wines. You can feel it looking at you, trying to read you. You don’t even know how to place the emotions you feel. They burn like bile in the back of your throat. There’s rage that you weren’t consulted. There’s something like sadness. Something that could be jealousy. You don’t know.

“On one condition,” you say, “I want to go alone. Just Candles and I.”

Wines starts to protest, “What if something goes wrong?” The unspoken  _ ‘how can we trust you? _ ’ rings clearly. You slam your fist into the table and Wines falls silent. 

“I am the only one who is allowed to do this. I will see it done right, or it won’t be done at all,” you snarl, wings quivering under your robes. Your fur is on edge and you know your eyes are wild. If this has to be done, and you know it does, you, alone, will do it.

Candles deserves that much, at least.

—

The Manager of the Royal Bethlehem has a sick sense of humor; every year at Easter, he sends you a candle. 

In the Neath, they have the Book of Judas added to their version of the Bible. Jesus knew his fate and Judas did what had to be done to free him from the mortal world. It was God’s will. (How funny that the Bible, even down here, never said a Reckoning would come dressed as Jesus.)

You wonder, then, how much Candles knew.

—

_ What if I was wrong by never moving on? _

—

They say: before the Third City fell, Camazotz was the god of night and death. Afterwards, sacrifice was added to the list of things the god was associated with.

(— You had flown over the city several times before you formally approached them to broker a contract. You took on a disguise to learn their ways and study their culture so you could better offer them something they wanted. 

It had been your first time acquiring a city and perhaps you had been proud about it. You wanted to prove that you could do something as well as Wines, as well as Candles, despite not being bright like them.

When you finally showed yourself to them, it was you they crowded around, not Wines. That was the first time you anyone but Candles had looked at you with such awe. You would become addicted to the worship. After all, it was something never given to you until now. The others always hoarded the attention of humans. You never thought you wanted it until then. 

Until then, Candles had been enough. Perhaps that’s because you had never tasted more. But now you had.

You were a god to more than just the Third City. The change to the deity was recorded for all to see and it spread across the continent like wildfire. You were young and selfish and drunk on that.)

They say: Camazotz will watch all sacrifices to the gods and judge them. If they are found worthy, he will carry the sacrifice to the gods himself. 

(— You had watched it all. You had wanted to store it in your collection but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You had tried to find some sort of sick pleasure in it. You couldn’t. The Priests’ work was sloppy, wrong. They had a god laid out and bleeding before them and they couldn’t even comprehend it to the extent they should. 

You don’t think about it anymore.

But when they were finished wiping their mouths and licking their lips, you grabbed up the remains with bared teeth and took Candles back down to the darkness and deeper still. The least you could do was give it to a well.)

They say: Camazotz brought light to the humans.

(— And you did, didn’t you? Bright white and golden? So beautiful that it aches to look at? And humans didn’t deserve it. Not even Sol could match Candles.)

—

Look, Curators don’t have nightmares. But Masters can.

Sometimes you have horribly vivid dreams of Candles pinned out like a butterfly and it's so beautiful. You run a claw down its neck, eyes wide as you stare into its open, gaping chest. There is gold everywhere and you are holding the knife. Its heart is pounding and you reach in to touch it, wrap your hands around it. You pull it to your mouth and sink your teeth in. The juices pour down your throat and your wings shake from the flavor.

And Candles, Candles reaches out, pulling the nails that hold it crucified to its cross. It touches your muzzle, wipes blood from your lips and tugs you into a kiss.

And void take you, the kiss tastes better than its blood and that’s why it's a nightmare. Your knees buckle because you could have had it all. You could have ruled beside it. And you gave that all up for a fleeting sense of godhood from  _ humans _ .

—

You jerk awake with a gasp. Emil is at your side in an instant, trying to push you back down and white-hot pain shoots through your whole body. You lurch forward and dry-heave and Emil is yelling for Apples and—

You are crying. You bring a hand to your face and touch the wetness. You can taste the salt of your own tears. It burns your eyes and for a moment the shock of it overtakes the pain. You aren’t crying from the pain. That would be too simple. 

For the first time, you are crying over Candles. 

All the emotions you had repressed and fought, all the memories and pain, it bubbles up and you gag again. A small whimper leaves your throat and it's pathetic. Emil is petting your fur, still trying to make you stand back up, but you can’t hear anything but Candle’s screams as your body shakes. When you heave the next time, blood splatters from your lips. 

“You ripped out your stitches,” Emil is saying when your ears stop ringing. You look down at your chest, an incision goes down from your collarbone all the way down to your hips. Over your abdomen, it bleeds, fleshing pulling away from the sutures that are meant to hold it closed. 

You allow Emil to help you back into the bed. He makes sure you are laid out on your back, a hand nervously stroking the webbing of one of your wings. You know he’s doing it to comfort himself more so than you. Apples gives you a stern talking to about being more careful as it sews you back shut. 

“What’s it from?” You croak. 

Apples looks at Emil who looks away. “I didn’t think,” he huffs defensively, “What I did to the Third City fragment would… carry over.”

You remember, then, how Emil cut you open. How he did everything to you as you let happen to Candles. You also remember how Emil’s eyes had shone gold.

“You did kind of deserve it,” Apples teases. You agree but don’t dare say it aloud.

—

_ The ghost in me was true but you were haunted too just. _

—

You have no appetite for days, which makes the healing process slow. Apples tries to get you to eat but you can’t bring yourself to. Meat you didn’t hunt yourself has always made you feel sick and any fruits remind you of Parabola. The lack of food, of course, makes you tired. You sleep often, weak. Emil is worried, reluctant to leave your side even when his duties as Fist of the Bazaar force him to. 

At one point you hear Emil telling Apples that he got called to do a job for Fires. You can’t help but growl, although you are too fatigued to move. Apples assures Emil it will watch you. You hear Emil leave after a few more moments and then a weight on the edge of your bed. 

“I’m not eating any of your fruit,” you grumble. 

“Do you think it's possible?” Apples asks, instead, too nonchalant. You don’t reply, opening your eyes just so you can glare at it. “Do you even know how close he is?”

“Apples.”

“Yes, my dear?”

“Shut up before I hunt you for sport.”

—

Curators born with four eyes are seen as good luck. They are raised to be the most talented of hunters and guardians of their flock. Pressure is put on them from a young age to live up to expectations higher than their clutch mates. They have the blood thirst and the ferocity to be Peddler-Kings, but quiet whispers say that all Dragons were once Curators with more than two eyes. 

You were set up to have a god-complex from birth.

Was it all a cruel joke to the Judgements? You were damned from the beginning. Why was it any surprise when you broke the Laws, when you hunted outside the right Day? You knew nothing else but to hunt. You were worshiped for your skills and you preened at the attention. 

Why should you be punished for doing what you were born to do? You were better than your peers, a gift to your clutch and flock. Yet you had worked hard to keep your place, to prove yourself. You craved violence and hunts. They dedicated whole songs to you!

Others looked at you in fear and you learned that fear is more important than love. (You had never truly been loved until Candles traced the sigil for it on your wing webbing late one night.)

—

You once heard: false gods are worshiped in wine and flowers but real gods require blood. You determined then that you would only bow to a god who was worth your time. You wouldn’t follow the Laws of something weak and fake.

(When Candles died, flowers stopped growing on the Winking Isle. 

But Devils say the Exile’s Rose grows best when watered with blood.)

—

_ Nevermore to leave here. _

_ Nevermore to leave here. _

_ You should never be here. _

—

You are shaken from a shallow sleep tinted with Viric when you smell blood. It's fresh and your nose twitches. You blink open your eyes to see Emil holding out a large slice of raw meat in front of your face. 

Your stomach growls. It smells good. 

You glance at Emil and then back at the meat. Nothing has smelt good in what feels like forever. You practically rip it from his hands. The blood tastes familiar.

“I told you it would work,” Emil says to Apples, who is standing behind him. You savor the flavor, licking every drop of blood from your fangs before looking pointedly at the next piece Emil has on the plate in his lap. He laughs softly, offering it to you. 

When he holds his arm up to feed you, you notice a bloodied bandage wrapped around his arm. You chew slower this time. The meat is brined in Emil’s own blood. How long had he bled himself to have enough? You don’t think about it anymore as you continue to let him feed you. Apples leaves the room, but not before giving you a wink.

You can feel your strength returning and Emil seems to notice you perking up because he starts to speak. “I’m going to be gone for a few days,” he tells you, watching as you grab his wrist to lick his fingers. 

You assume you are supposed to ask him where he’s going. “How many candles do you have?” You demand instead.

He hesitates, taking his arm back from your grip and handing you the plate instead. You lick it clean. “Six.” He says finally.

St Gawain’s. You’ve only heard rumors. It's the impossible candle and you don’t even know how he means to obtain it. Can he? You remember what Apples had asked you earlier and you still don’t know the answer. It shouldn’t be possible but Emil is anything but ordinary and you’ve known that since the beginning, when he came back from you disemboweling him. 

You cannot allow yourself to hope though. That would be foolish. You are not naive.

“What then? Do you mean to knock and flood the Neath with light? Kill us all to collect a debt?” You growl quietly. The bitterness in your voice takes you off guard. You don’t know what to think. Why else would Eaten spare you if not to just make you suffer more? (—and this is not Candles. Candles is gone, it has to be. If this Seeker has convinced himself otherwise you will kill the ghost that dares to be a mockery of the light Candles was. Put it out of its misery.)

You see Emil flinch, something flickering in his eyes. “I want to kill the very Stars that damn us. Break the Chains that bind us. I—” he pauses, furrows his brow. “—  _ It  _ wants to be remembered. To come back.”

You bare your teeth. This is not Parabola, even if there was something left of it there, there is nothing left of it here. There can’t be. “Candles is gone. Get that through your thick skull.” Are you talking to him or yourself? It isn’t possible to come back from that, even as a Judgement. What came back wouldn’t be Candles.

“And if there’s even a shard of it left?” He watches you closely and you make sure not to let yourself show any emotion. “You can feel it. Inside me there is a spore, a fragment of Candles.”

Your talons flex. “I’m not going to stop you.” You pause, your posture deflating. “I don’t think I could, now. Just go, then.” You spit the words, deflecting the feeling of hope that seems to swell in your breast.

Emil gets up and leaves.

—

You spend the next few days looking into St Gawain and the Impossible Candle. You dig frantically through books and scrolls, even visiting the Wing named after you at the Royal Beth. The Seekers there are too far gone to give you much information, just babbling about how you’ll lose your head seeking it. 

You do enjoy a nice cup of coffee with the Manager. He doesn’t pry but seems very interested in Emil. He asks you when Emil will come to visit. You can’t help but frown. He laughs at you. 

“He helped me with my nightmares once. Gave his dreams to a Fingerking to save my memories of love. Boy has… a skill.”

You don’t think more on that.

—

You are frustrated with the lack of answers and it shows as you toss yet another priceless book into the fire. Your claws have worn grooves into the floor from pacing. You’ve shredded the upholstery on the arms of one of Apples’ chaise lounges. Pages has banned you from its rooms because the books never come back. Fires gives some insight, just because of how often it hires Emil and its dealing with other, less stealthy, Seekers trying to find candles. But none of it helped you feel any closer to figuring out what Emil planned on doing. 

Are you scared? Worried?

Apples sighs and it shakes you out of your thoughts. “Have you checked his lodgings? He had to have found the information somewhere as well.”

You blink, turning to Apples in a sweep of your robes. “Of course I have! That’s the first thing I did, as it is the most logical!” You exclaim before making your exit.

The most logical. And you didn’t even think to do it before. You can  _ feel _ Apples smirking. It knows you too well. 

—

Emil has left his lodgings a mess. Half made candles are everywhere, wax solidified to every table. Scraps of paper and drawings pinned to one wall. The windows are all covered. You rip it apart even more. You find too many empty bottles of Black Wings Absinthe, drawings of yourself, and the only clothes he has kept hanging up and not thrown on the floor are those you’ve gifted him.

Then you find a journal tucked away. It’s not his, of course. He can’t write, or read for that matter, but you know he isn’t exactly alone in his head so he probably had some help.

You flip through the journal, feeling dread build up as you read each passage. It's filled with sermons done at the Chapel of Lights and each one makes you feel sick. Each worse than the last. Candles’ whole life story, twisted just enough that it's wrong. And you? The Betrayer? You are heralded as a hero, because without you, there would be no Drowned Man. 

And isn’t that what you wanted?

You fight the urge to rip the pages out as you go, shaking as you make slow progress in reading each entry. You drop the book when you get to the end. You shred your robes from your body and launch yourself from the house, taking flight. 

St Gawain’s can be obtained and Emil is about to offer himself to become a Candle.

—

_ Here and now, if this is it. _

_ Can't get out from under it. _

—

You land right as Emil is walking up to the Chapel. It's a rough landing. You slam into the ground hard before straightening up, towering over him. You spread your wings wide to prevent him from going around you. 

(And that look again from Emil as it stares at your wings. Something like love. It hurts, it hurts,  _ it hurts _ .)

“I know the last part of this, now,” you warn him. Then you drop your voice low. “I can’t let you sacrifice yourself for this.”

Emil bristles and you see him reach for his weapon. “Don’t act like you care about me. What is more blood on your hands?”

You waver for just a moment. “You want to  _ be _ it.” You breathe, the words heavy in your mouth. The words feel like a death sentence to say aloud. “It  _ made _ candles — it was not a candle. Your goal will fail if you listen to that voice.” You sound weak, a tone akin to begging. You search Emil’s eyes with your own, staring at those flecks of gold in the dark Peligin. 

“And you know another way?”

“I can… offer you a different transformation entirely.” You try and steady yourself before continuing. Still, the words catch in your throat. “If-if you are to… become it… I won’t have you do so in the carcass of a human, reshaped into a candle.” Your voice slips to a snarl, your eyes wild and desperate. 

You hear Emil’s heart pounding, watch him swallow. “And the seventh candle?”

“You have the memory of candle making. The Priest has plenty of tallow left on his bones.” You feel yourself break then, a crack in your facade. “Do you know how many times I’ve seen you? — Not Emil. My  _ mate _ . The ghost of it in every Seeker, something twisted and wrong and rotting. Something  _ Eaten _ . Killed it over and over.” You shudder, clutching your gut, fingers brushing the scar that Eaten sliced up your center. You hiss. “Every single one shouting that blasted phrase. A Reckoning. Most would kill the Bazaar to get to me. I have postponed it. But I know as well as you I cannot keep this up forever. If… if I am to let any Seeker survive, it will be the one who reminds me—” 

You can’t speak anymore, throat tight. You bow your head, shoulders shaking. You can’t look at Emil, can’t bear to see the pure gold in his eyes. You know then Candles is there, in him. Candles has never been in any other Seeker. It has always been Eaten. But Emil— you let out a breath. 

You feel a hand on claws. He wraps his fingers around one of your claws, prying it from your stomach. You flinch at first but then brush your claw up against him, wrapping around his waist. You are still shaking. 

“Take me North, after?” He asks. “See the Horizon open with me?”

“It’s all I’ve wanted. For millennia.” You sigh the words. “Once we have the candle, and you your transformation, we go North. Together.”

—

Beheading the Priest for Emil was cathartic but watching Emil make a candle is… relaxing. You remember watching Candles work next to you for hours. Emil’s hands move with ease, working fat and threading the wick. Emil hums as he works and it's a song that Candles used to sing to you. The candlelight sways towards Emil as he works, the light making him glow. 

There’s something beautiful about this, you think. 

And finally, there is a candle. 

—

_ There and then, I should have known. _

_ It was me all along. _

—

You are not skilled with Shapeling Arts. Apples can meld amber and flesh alike, but neither of you could ever live up to Candles. But when you break down in front of Apples, explaining your plan and asking for help, it cradles your face and hushes you.

“I was wondering when you would ask. I’ve seen Emil’s soul. There is something there. With enough… encouragement, it may yet be possible.” 

You had been cruel to Apples these last few years, ignoring it and its pain. But it missed Candles and it was vocal about it. It wanted comfort and you couldn’t give it that. You hadn’t considered how these cities had been affecting it, but here, you realize how much it, too, misses the sky. The two of you had grown apart and you can’t believe that even after all that, it would still agree to help.

“You’re hurting too,” Apples tells you when you ask why. “Don’t think I didn’t notice. We all dealt in our own ways. Yours was just more Irrigo-tinted.” It helps you stand up, putting a hand to your leg and giving a squeeze. “Please. Let’s bring it home. Let’s be a family again.”

Yes, you would like that.

—

You both will add Candles to your collection, you think. Something violent and immortal. And you will love it completely. You will never let it go again.

—

You know enough about the consumption of greater flesh to know what this will entail and you are no stranger to bloodletting. Apples helps gather the blood and amber and other supplies, but it still takes days to get enough blood. You both pass the amber chunks between the two of you, even slipping it into Wines’ robes so it touches some as well. The Vital Essence will be needed.

You are weak and pale when you finally send for Emil. He had kept himself busy, trying not to let any know about his plans. He didn’t want anyone to worry and none of you could risk another Master stepping in to stop now. 

(You are sure some know. The fact that you aren’t dead is evidence enough something is happening.) 

Apples has cleaned out one of its rooms it uses as Hearts. It has set up an operating table and various supplies are laid out around the room. You have set up your own table as well, covered with threads and needles and cloth. Both of you have discarded your robes, knowing this will get messy. Apples is jovial as always but you can smell anxiety prickling in its scent. None of you know if this will work. It could go terribly wrong. You could lose Emil and the last shard of Candles’ soul all together. 

You are breaking Laws greater than any you have before. You are performing a great Sin. It would be easier if you had Wines (with its knowledge of Law) or Fires (with its knowledge of Science) or even Iron (with its knowledge of Blades) but you don’t know how any of them will react. The three of you had always been trouble for the Bazaar and you sure Wines would object to this.

And Emil— Emil is the bravest human you know. 

He came down here to make a name for himself and you will remember his name forever. He will live forever to you. This is the greatest sacrifice one can make and he does so without a second thought, without a complaint. He does it out of love.

(You only wish you had more time to return it.)

You help Emil up onto the table, handing him the first glass of your blood. “We… aren’t good with the arts of reshaping flesh, not like it was.” You warn Emil. “But you will be a Master again.” You can’t help but sound terrified. 

“I will… offer what memories I can.” Emil says, struggling to force the blood down. You refill the goblet. “Just… please don’t betray me again.” He says weakly. 

“Never again,” you swear, brushing a claw across his jaw.

—

_ Stirs of whispers trail and linger. _

_ You still haunt the corners of my heart. _

—

There is a softness in the way you strip Emil. He is delicate and special. He is a part of your collection, bloodstained and scarred. You are slow, deliberate. He has drank as much blood as he can for now and you fold fabric up to lay under his head. One last time, you trace his scars, memorizing them. He squeezes your hand. 

You lay him out on his stomach and trace a line down his spine. Apples approaches then. No words are exchanged between the three of you. You take measurements of his arms as Apples rubs in various oils and salts into his skin. You make small incisions along his back with your claw when the skin starts to feel loose. Apples helps you peel the skin back. Emil’s spine lays bare and Apples reaches for something from the table.

There is something so intimate about it, about Emil’s skin giving under your work. Trust you don’t think you deserve but it is given freely. It’s a redemption of sorts, you think. You are rebuilding what you destroyed.

Apples plants seeds between the vertebrae. Amber is the soil, heated and dripped down. You recognize them as a species from Parabola. You keep working the skin from muscle, like you would skin a kill, until long strips of skin hang loose. You do not understand how to grow wings so you prompt them to get started with manual intervention. You carve the Correspondence Sigil for Candle’s name into the underside of his skin seven times.

You help Emil drink more of your blood as Apples pulls out a Mirrorcatch box. 

“Tastes like wax,” he mumbles, voice hoarse. Then he adds, “You’re doing good.”

“Don’t try and talk.” You scold but your voice is just as forced, scared.

“I’m opening the box,” Apples interrupts. You nod, placing a hand over Emil’s eyes. There is a flash of Viric light, bright enough to daze and temporarily blind you. The sound of hissing is loud before it dissipates. You blink the haze from your eyes and the light gradually lowers to a more tolerable brightness.

The seeds nestled into Emil’s spine react to the light, bursting to life. Apples is skilled with plants and viric. You lean over to help Apples as it guides the vines to grow into the needed shape. The briars twine together and Apples coos to the plants as the two of you coax them into bones. Roses bloom under Apples careful command. 

You prick yourself on a thorn and curse. Blood drips from your hand down the vine. Apples chuckles. “Careful, love.” 

Once the briar vines have been formed into the bones for the wings, you pull the skin over it. Apples helps you as you use claw and thread to connect the flesh to the plants. It's a long and tedious process, trying to make the skin stretch like taffy with the help of amber. It pulls easy enough, but you often have to pause to give Emil more blood so he does not pass out and to help the change take hold. You are used to sewing and suturing but your claws tend to slip on the blood and flesh does not give in the same way silk does. You try and make the stitches as neat and straight as you can.

The vines fill out to cover his exposed spine and Apples fills it in with more amber and wax. The Viric light goes out after a while, leaving you blinking as your eyes readjust. 

Eventually you run out of blood you had already prepared and have to hold your wrist directly to Emil’s mouth. He suckles like a newborn babe. His eyes are hazy from the pain and you have no doubt he’s not truly with you anymore. You aren’t sure how long Apples and you work. It's messy and  _ wrong _ but it's done by your own hands. 

There is no Sequence for this. To ascend the Chain through these Arts is to go against it. You do not have permission for this, nor would it have been given. 

But finally, Emil is left with something akin to a mockery of wings. You wrap the new appendages in silk. It will do. It has to.

Apples wrings its claws together as you help Emil sit up. “If you can stand, just long enough to knock…” Apples begs. 

He nods. “I will.” He reaches out weakly and you gather him up in your arms gently. 

—

_ One for the memory, two for the pain. _

—

You fly North.

“I have wings,” Emil tells you quietly, fists curled into your fur. His voice is full of awe and you remember how he told you he has wings in his dreams. He’s missed having wings.

“You have wings,” you agree.

You aren’t sure how much of Emil is left. Ever since you began the procedure, his eyes started to turn gold and his hair started to turn white. You can see his veins under his skin and the blood looks like yours.

“Will you sing for me?”

You pause. Then, you sing. It starts as a hum in the back of your throat. You haven’t sang in so long. Not since Candles. But the song burns to life in your breast, rumbles through you as natural as the Order of Days. The stars in your wings glow brighter. You sing of exiles and kings, of Suns and Light. Of Love. You sing the song of the Traveller Returning.

And somewhere along the way, as you fly close to water, ice collecting on your fur and in Emil’s hair, Emil starts to sing with you. 

_ — _

_ Hey, do you hear me? Do you hear me now? _

—

You have to circle a few times before finding a place where you can land carefully. You dig your talons into the ice to keep your footing. You haven’t been here since—

You set Emil down and he holds onto your arm for balance. He is shivering and you take his bag from him to help set up the candles near the Gate. You try not to look at the Watchers but you can feel their gaze and Judgement.

You watch Emil move towards the Horizon, watching him and only him. You don’t let your eyes wander to the stars, the real stars.

(In all things look to—)

You whisper a word of the Correspondence that ignites all the candles and the sound of Emil knocking echoes all around you. It pounds in your head, stings your eyes. Seven times seven. You hold yourself back as you watch his fist (The Fist. Your Fist.) shatter into pieces from the cold. 

When he speaks, his voice doesn’t falter even once. 

“How can he return?”

—

_ Stay. _

_ Stay near me. _

_ Stay near me now. _

—

The Avid Horizon doesn’t open like a door. You know this. It blazes to life like the skin of a Sun, light pours out and you flinch back. You still don’t look away from Emil. 

Like a dense star, he is a dark spot against the light and you watch as he swells and expands. The wings break free of their silk bindings, the light is absorbed into his small frame. It's too much and his skin melts away. The shadow of what was once Emil bloats, growing up and up, wings arching up to touch the stars. A skeleton peels out of his back, flesh and fur blooms across it like flowers.

Emil is gone, and yet Emil is stronger than ever.

—

_ If madness overtakes us both, _

_ Then nobody would be alone. _

_ The ghost of us can linger here. _

_ Forever not to disappear. _

—

You say: “In this place that is Parabola, Wilderness, and Neath, you will be remembered.” 

—

_ We could be together here. _

_ Forever we're together bound in madness. _

—

The being in front of you is not Emil, but it knows the sacrifice Emil gave. You stumble forward, fall to your knees. Its fur shimmers like the ice all around. A gasp of breath fills lungs for the first time in millennia. It coughs up well water and lacre. But it is Whole. It is not Eaten.

You kept your promise. You had atoned. 

“Candles,” you call. And only then does it open its eyes and flex its wings and claws. It looks over itself and then it  _ runs.  _ It pounces on you, laughing and sobbing, and you pick it up and spin it around. “Candles. Candles. Candles.” You chant its name like a prayer.

It's real and it's here and it's  _ alive _ .

It's kissing you, grabbing your face and smiling. “Veils, oh, Veils,” it replies, “You have more scars.”

You laugh, pulling back and looking at it. “So do you.” You run a hand over its chest. It has Emil’s scars. Across its shoulder, under its pectorals, across its stomach, scattered across its thighs and on its arms. You lean down and kiss each one. They shimmer like gold. 

“We match,” it murmurs to you, squirming from your grip to kiss the scar Emil left on you as well.

—

_ Here and now, _

_ If this is it, _

_ Why don't we just savor it? _

—

The shop isn’t far from the Bazaar, but it’s late and you want to retire for the night. Worse yet, the Neath has decided to drop water from the roof. You pull your hood down lower to keep the Neath-Rain from getting your fur wet. 

You pass a group of Devils around the well in Charley Square. There are roses crawling out of it, the thorny vines spilling over the edge. Even with the rain, the air around the well smells like roses. You can’t help but pause and take in the scent. 

“What a Reckoning, hey?” One of the Devils is saying. 

“Oh shush, the Fingerkings are happy so we have no reason to complain.” His companion responds.

“Ha! True that. But I hear the mirror to Caduceus is about to open soon.”

“It will be good to go back home.” 

You look up at the roof. Yes, it will be good to go back home. You continue down the street. Your wings still ache as always, but you feel a bit lighter as you approach the shop. You look up at the sign hanging above the storefront. 

In elegant font, matched with roses and gold lettering it reads:  _ Mr Briar’s Candles & Chimeras. _

You shake your head, trying to fight a smile. The bell rings as you push open the door.

“Be right there!”

“You should have closed up shop hours ago,” you call, leaning against the counter. You reach out to pick up one of the hand carved gift candles, bringing it up to your nose. It smells like the High Wilderness. 

Mr Briar steps out of the back room, pushing past the curtain of Parabolan Silk that separates it from the main shop. Its sleeves are pushed up, wax on its claws. Its gold eyes shine brightly and for a moment you forget how to breathe. “Is it that late already?” It chirrups. 

You huff as you lean over to tug its hood back up before it falls off. “Yes. Now come on. Apples has dinner for us waiting.”

—

You're the only one to call it by its old name anymore. You only say it when you're alone.

Late at night when you two are a mess of tangled limbs, it's not as warm or bright as it used to be. That's alright. Here, it has removed its thorns for you, curled up against you as it breathes. You hold it tight because you know it loves the weight of you. You count the seconds between each breath, feel its heartbeat, and know it's alive.

The first time you say it, you think it's asleep.

"Candles," you whisper so quietly. You speak the name like it's sacred, it burns to life in your throat, on your tongue. Names are power and it doesn't use that name anymore. But that's the name you will always remember it by.

It shifts and you hold your breath. You didn't mean to wake it. 

"Say it again," it asks softly. 

And you do. You kiss each letter as a warm heat against its body. You say its name over and over, trying to mend each scar and hurt and transgression with it. You shake from it. You don't realize you are crying until it takes your head into its hands and kisses you. 

"Shh, I'm here."

And it is.

—

_ Stay. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Chimera has a lesser known definition: "an illusion or fabrication of the mind especially an unrealizable dream".


End file.
